Page 9 of Fall Surprises
"Rory," Gus began.
"The family checks out at nine," Cass cut in smoothly, moving beside his girlfriend. "We'll handle preparing the suites for tomorrow. You'll have the whole afternoon free after you pick up supplies. Beautiful day—might as well make use of it."
The two of them stood united, a battle I couldn't win. Beside me, Gus seemed to reach the same conclusion.
"Fine," he muttered. "We'll leave at ten."
"Wonderful!" Rory beamed like she'd just solved world hunger. "The apple orchard and pumpkin patch are must-sees while you're in town, Sam. Trust me."
She gave Gus a look that clearly saidfix this, then swept out with Cass following.
Neither of us spoke.
I bent to help clean up the remaining herbs, our hands nearly touching as we reached for the same sprig of parsley. He pulled back first.
"I am sorry," I said quietly. "About the herbs, and what I said. That was out of line."
"Yeah, well." He dumped the salvaged herbs in the trash. "I wasn't exactly diplomatic either."
We worked without speaking, cleaning up my mess. When we finished, he turned to the stove to finish plating.
"Ten o'clock," he said without looking at me. "Wear something warm. It'll be cold in the mountains."
"I'll be ready."
I retreated to my room, coffee forgotten in the kitchen. This was a disaster. I was here to coordinate a high-profile wedding, not take field trips with a chef who clearly couldn't stand me. But Rory was right about one thing—I was wound tight, and maybe a few hours away from my laptop would help me reset.
I spent the next two hours reviewing vendor contracts and confirming delivery times, trying to ignore the fact that I was looking forward to seeing the apple orchard. When had I last spent time in nature just for the experience?
At nine-forty-five, I changed into my comfiest jeans, layered a flannel shirt over my long-sleeve tee, and pulled on the wool coat I'd packed. A plaid scarf and leather gloves completed the outfit. I studied myself in the mirror, hoping I looked okay.
Gus was waiting by his truck when I came downstairs—a beat-up Ford that had seen better times. He'd changed out of hischef's whites into faded jeans and a dark green henley. A leather jacket hung open over his shirt, and he'd left his hair down, dark waves just touching his collar.
I focused on adjusting my scarf.
"Ready?" he asked, tone neutral.
"As I'll ever be."
The truck's cab was small, the bench seat brown leather worn smooth. Every bump in the road shifted us slightly closer together. The drive started in silence, both of us staring at the winding road that led deeper into the mountains.
The October landscape was breathtaking—aspens turning gold against evergreen pines, morning sun painting everything in warm light. The air through the cracked window was sharp and cold enough that our breath formed small clouds. Fall in Colorado was beautiful, but this felt different. Wilder. More raw.
"It's gorgeous here," I ventured after ten minutes.
"Yeah." He kept his eyes on the road. "Different from San Francisco."
"Is that where your restaurant was?"
His knuckles tightened on the steering wheel. "Yeah. Harvest. We had it for three years before..." He trailed off.
Before it failed, he'd said last night. I wanted to ask what happened, but his clenched jaw suggested the topic was closed.
Another five minutes passed. I watched the scenery roll by, feeling like a burden he'd been forced to drag along.
Then he surprised me.
"Look, about this morning—"
